“You don’t mean it, colonel; you can’t mean that!”
The colonel nodded, then he pulled a moment at his cigar.
“I’m afraid I do mean it. Perhaps Plato—that’s my man—might be interested. I’ll ask him.”
Bernstein held up his hands.
“Not without you, colonel!” He sat and stared for a moment at the old man opposite, a look of hopeless commiseration on his face. “Say,” he groaned at last, “you people down here haven’t got any enterprise! This is my second experience. I’m surprised, colonel; I’m pained. This town—it’s perfect, sir, for the part, it’s kind of dead-and-alive and shady, and there’s the pickaninnies. You could do any amount of close-ups and cut-backs on ’em. Gee, it’s too bad!” He shook his head regretfully.
“I reckon you could get the pickaninnies all right,” remarked the colonel comfortingly. “Tried it?”
Mr. Bernstein shook his head.
“No, sir! I’ve been after Mrs. William Carter. Know her?”
The colonel, a little startled, took the cigar from between his teeth.
“I have that honor, sir.”